October 28, 2001
  gun monkey

We were riding home in Bob, and I was massaging my sore hand. "Journal entry!" I declared. The Guy was busy watching the road.

"Are you going to write about going shooting?"

"Yeah."

"Are you going to put in the part about kicking my ass?" he asked.

"Yeah." I said. "Of course."

"Is there any possibility you would leave that part out?"

So on Saturday, I lived up to my Washington State heritage -- that's the yankee, gun-totin', flannel-wearin', crotch-grabbin', Coors-drinkin' side that's usually repressed, y'all -- and went shooting in Milpitas. It was the Guy's idea. For a rare change, he had a Saturday available; usually he has to work on Saturday, and crashes on Sunday, part of the exhilerating, rejuvenating Silicon Valley midlife crisis known as a start-up. We were originally thinking of going up to San Francisco to get some Dim Sum, but he called me up during the week to see if I would consider changing my mind.

"See, my friend Little John, he just got a new gun, and he was thinking of going to the shooting range...."

"Great!" the redneck within yelled, before the Guy could finish. "Let's go!"

It's been almost twelve years since I last shot off a gun. In fact, now that I think about it, it's been more than twelve years, since I'm pretty sure that the last memory I have of shooting a gun was some false memory I made up by myself in cooperation with some NRA subliminal message advertisement campaign popular in the 1980s. Whether that's true or not, it means it's been at least a decade since I've shot a gun.

The shooting club we went to in Milipitas was a little hole-in-the-wall place, a small indentation in a We Be Men Mall that featured a gun shop, a martial arts dojo, a fish-and-tackle store, and an auto repair garage. Another of the Guy's friends came last minute, one of the innumerable Cool People that seem to be tucked away in his wardrobe of friends, just so they can be pulled out at moments like this. This one came armed with an extra gun, which he lent us for the purposes of the trip.

Items of note in the shooting club:

1) A poster for the NRA, featuring Charlton Heston smiling benevolently at a politically correct mixture of children, who all gazed adoringly at him in return. He was their Messiah, their champion for the Second Amendment. I giggled.

2) Targets were on sale, paper sheets with bullseyes and assorted other marks. One large one, on sale for fifty cents each, featured the silhouette of a human body, waist up. Over the head, a giant X had been inked on, together with the word, "No Head Shots!" Does practicing head shots imply an intent to kill? What about my Second Amendment? I giggled some more.

3) I was the only woman present without a mullet.

We were assigned three lanes -- the man selling us ammunition regarded me giggling at Mr. Heston with an eye verging on the hostile, while his co-worker offended us all by recognizing the Linux penguin on the Guy's credit card, and then announcing that he was a Mac guy, himself -- and we popped on our protection, and went in to shoot.

For those of you who have never seen a shooting range, imagine a hermetically sealed, air-conditioned bowling alley without the cool paneling and decoration. The only real items of note in a shooting range is that 1) almost everything is concrete, and 2) if you go over the gate into the range itself, you have just volunteered yourself for the Darwin Awards.

The second I stepped into the range, I wished I hadn't. I don't think a fear of guns can be considered cowardice. I prefer to use the word "self-preservation."

No woman would have invented a gun. I believe this whole-heartedly. Efficiency in some things, yes, but in killing? That takes a man. Your average woman, if angered enough to want to kill, doesn't want it to be efficient. Your average woman wants it to be painful, drawn-out, and tactile. This is why marriage was invented.

The Guy's friend had brought an extra .45 for us to use. This, ladies and gents, is a honker. It's one big-ass gun. It packs a kick. In the lane next to us, a stocky guy with glasses and a sunburned neck was using a shotgun to methodically annihilate one of the human-silhouette targets. There were seismographs in Napa Valley picking up tremors from the explosions. No head shots, hah.

He and the salesman helping him tore shot through the silhouette, and made a gaping hole that sent the bottom half of the target free-floating to the ground.

"He's dead!" they cheered each other.

The rest of our group leaned out of our cages, eyed the back of the shotgun man's neck, and went back to what we were doing. Yeah. These guys were gene pool material. Sure.

In my little corner of the shooting range, the Guy was patiently loading the gun and priming it for me. It was just like TV, except in TV, there's a palpable aura of self-confidence involved in the act of loading a gun.

In my cage, there was cursing, and some frowning, and some tugging, and some clicking, and -- okay, yes, I admit it, I couldn't help it -- flinching. I mean, there are some settings where "oops" isn't really a problem, but in a target range with live ammo and a gun, well. Let's just say I've been in more comforting situations.

"Here's the safety," instructed the Guy when he had finished sorting out which bit was what. "You sight down these, and you ... you know all this, right?"

"Yes," I lied. "I just forget a little. Which end do I point at the--?"

The Guy and I took turns. Each clip held seven bullets; on the first try, I scored a perfect seven. Seven bullets out of seven bullets failed to hit inside any of the bullseye circles.

On the other hand, the recoil managed to poke out my eye.

Score one for the gun.

On the second clip, I clipped the inside of the outermost ring on the target.

"Yay, me!" I yelped.

The Guy's friend, who had been watching me with deepening concern on his amiable face, dove into the cage for a moment.

"Um, just make sure not to put your finger on the trigger when you're not intending to shoot."

Right. I knew that. Oh, and the safety. Need to remember the safety.

On the third clip, three of my bullets made it to the inside of the outer ring. "I'm getting better," I declared, proudly.

"What were you aiming at?" the Guy's friend asked, dubiously.

I pointed.

The next time, I aimed at my own target.

By this time, I had started to feel comfortable. The Guy's shots were still going wildly askew; mine, on the other hand, were starting to get closer and closer to whatever it is that I was aiming at.

Before I went in with the fifth clip, the Guy's friend retrieved the target and pasted stickers on it, two smaller bullseye patterns in different places on the paper. "It'll give you something else to aim at," he explained, cheerfully.

I laid a pattern of three bullets in the bullseye, close enough together that my palm could cover them.

Then I laid two in one of the other bullseyes.

I then laid the last two bullets into the first bullseye again.

"I think I'm getting better," I told the guys, thoughtfully.

The Guy blinked. His friend sniggered.

"Remind me not to piss you off," the Guy muttered, loaded, and went into the cage to prove his masculinity.

It was an ugly day for men.

All told, we shot off 150 rounds. I shot about 65 of them. By the end, I pretty much shot whatever I aimed at. I was bad, yo. I was being the kick-ass hunter-gatherer of Silicon Valley.

Shooting a gun is one of those rare experiences that let you step into the testosterone-filled shoes of men for a while. Not many things are so deeply ingrained in the gender role as gunpowder. Every woman should try it, at least once. I think it gives one a deeper understanding of the male sex. I think that, to reciprocate, we should permit men to experience life in the female condition. We could tie them down, insert a wire hook, and extract their large intestines through their urethra. That sort of thing.

It's just a thought.

In the car:

"Is there any possibility that you would leave that part out?"

I squinted at him. "No," I assured him. "There really isn't."

"I didn't think so. I don't really mind that you kicked my butt," the Guy assured me. "I'm confident enough in my masculinity that it doesn't bother me."

"I know," I said, kindly, "and I love you for it. Really, I do."

Yuhri. Killer-Asian-Gun-Monkey.